


Look Over Your Shoulder

by unwillingadventurer



Category: Colditz (1972)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-08-02 13:32:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16306085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unwillingadventurer/pseuds/unwillingadventurer
Summary: Several decades have passed since the days of Colditz, and Horst Mohn has built a new life. But sometimes your past catches up with you and doesn't let you forget.





	Look Over Your Shoulder

It had been a long time since his eyes had seen Europe and he was terrified. He had been away so long- living an entirely new life, unfamiliar with the changing continent, only ever reading about it in newspapers- that he never dared to think of returning. And now as he stepped out of the taxi, his shiny shoes touching the firm ground beneath him, there was a sharp chill in the air. He was in England. 

He relied on his wife for support on one side of his body and on a walking stick for the other, his ageing limbs weak, and his war injury causing more and more pain in his advancing years. In Germany he had been known as the formidable Major Horst Mohn, held in high regard by some and loathed by many. He’d been an honourable and respected war hero in Greece and Crete, in Stalingrad had been wounded, and eventually he was awarded the Iron Cross for his bravery- for his duty to his country. But he was no longer able to fight and so had been made second in command at Colditz and when the war was ending and in fear for his life he fled in the dead of night, never to be missed and never to see his country again.

He’d been strong and victorious once. He’d been on the winning side. Now he was invisible, lost to time. He’d become a new man in name and position and an ordinary man of no such honour or glory. He now kept his opinions to himself and interacted little, doing nothing which would cause spectacle. He told no one of his past, not even his small family, and had spent his life in an ordinary job with an ordinary house, too unsure to spend money for fear of what it could bring with it.

He had once told someone at Colditz that in order to survive one must blend into its surroundings, become a chameleon to adapt and that is exactly what he did. Horst Mohn was a memory and as the years passed he didn’t really know who that man had been, in fact, he still wasn’t sure who the new man was. He was a hybrid of strong determination and ideals and unflinching cowardice. He both repulsed his new self and also preferred the man he had become. He hated the Nazi regime and yet missed what it gave him. He both craved and rejected the part of him he had lost.

England. He’d only been there once or twice and yet it was like another planet after years of living in South America, refusing to even acknowledge that Europe existed at all, rejecting any idea to go near. It was a cold and dreary place, like Colditz in the winter, and the climate was unpredictable and uninviting. The weather did nothing for his ailments. Horst Mohn would never have complained of the harsh cold. Horst Mohn would be strong enough to resist. But he was no longer that man.

His first stop on the trip was to the south of England, to Sussex, to where his wife had discovered a chess tournament in progress. Relatives of hers resided nearby and Mohn reluctantly agreed to both the family visit and in turn the chess tournament- a game which he’d come to ignore for many years. The sight of Englishmen and the sight of chess frightened him and he had never told another soul about it. It brought all the Colditz memories flooding back. 

“When we met, you loved chess, darling,” his wife reminded him. She had been correct, he had loved it once but with a new life, chess was forgotten. His wife stood dusting off his smart blazer and she looked so youthful and vibrant in comparison to her white-haired and frail husband. She was younger and full of all the kindness and love that he never easily possessed. 

“Things change,” he said wearily, “people change.”

“How about one more game, see if you’ve got it in you?”

He hesitated. But what excuse could he keep giving for not doing things? The game somehow called to him like a constant tune in his head. He missed it. He missed the strategy and the logic, the power and the victory. He no longer had power over anything, especially not his own failing crippled body. 

He sat down with a struggle upon the hard wooden chair and waited for his opponent to arrive. The chess board was laid out already and he examined the pieces carefully, his old fingers caressing them like long lost friends. Suddenly an elderly man of similar age shuffled closer to the table and pulled out the opposite chair. 

“Mind if I join you?” he said in a voice that sounded familiar.

Mohn glanced at the man and felt his heart sink into his chest. The intense blue eyes of his new opponent were staring back at him and they were eyes he knew well. They were the eyes of Flight Lieutenant Simon Carter! The man at Colditz, the one he became fascinated with- the man who told him to look over his shoulder if ever he should run away. Mohn had done just that. He’d spent his whole life waiting for that tap on his arm. Waiting for his past to catch up with him. Waiting for his crimes at Colditz to become public knowledge and for him to receive his punishment. In truth, he wasn’t quite sure what he was guilty of- after all, during a war the lines became blurred and sometimes drastic measures needed to be taken. Did he accept any responsibility for his actions all those years ago? He wasn’t sure. He’d never confessed, not even to himself. He wasn’t sure in his heart what was right or wrong. 

Now he was face to face with the very man who told him to watch his back.

Simon Carter’s eyes were just as he had remembered them- vivid and determined, youthful and yet wise. The man had aged of course. His hair was silver and the face was wrinkled but it felt as though he still possessed the demeanour of the young and respected pilot. The man placed some spectacles on and smiled lightly.

“I’m Simon by the way,” he said, sticking out his hand for Mohn to shake, “I always think I should know a chap’s name before I beat him!”

The man hadn’t changed at all, Mohn thought. He had the same relaxed attitude, the same laid-back arrogance, the same desire to win. Mohn nodded and told Simon Carter his name. It was a new name, his new alias, but as he said it, his lips quivered, almost wanting to utter the words ‘Horst Mohn’ instead. His mouth suddenly felt dry and he could barely speak. He hoped his new accent resembled little of his old one. Part of him was thrilled that Lieutenant Carter was sitting in front of him, part of him was terrified. There was a constant tug of war with his feelings. 

Simon Carter had looked at him several times but he hadn’t yet recognised him. Mohn wondered whether he himself looked the same. He’d changed little details about his appearance over the years. His hair was a little longer and he once grew a moustache though he hated it. He could do little to hide the small scar by his eye however and would that be enough to give him away?

“You play much chess, mate?” Simon said, snapping him from his daydream.

Mohn resisted the urge to smile in the notion that Simon Carter had referred to him as ‘mate’. He flinched when he heard the question. “I used to play very well.”

“Oh yes? Any big games?” Simon moved the first piece a square forward and then relaxed in his seat.

“Yes, tournaments, many years ago, when I was a young man. Back in Berlin I…” He cut himself off immediately and looked down at the board.

“Berlin?” Simon’s voice seemed intrigued and Mohn could feel the man staring at him. “I’m sorry but you seem familiar to me. Have we met?”

Mohn dismissed him with a wave of the hand. “I doubt it.” 

He then finally made the first move, and instantly regretted it, having made the wrong choice. He didn’t show his mistake and instead took a quick glance at his opponent. 

Simon’s eyes narrowed. “You sure we haven’t met? You seem…well, even that thing you just did with your hand seemed familiar.”

There was the intense feeling of a sudden interrogation and Mohn wondered if he was being set-up. He glanced around discreetly, looking for signs of people watching, waiting to trap him. He clutched his stomach. He felt sick.

“Many people remind us of others, Mr. Carter,” he said.

Simon moved a chess piece across the board before he did a double-take. “Hold on, did I mention my surname?”

Mohn flinched again, his eye twitching with his own foolishness. “You must have.”

“Even the way you just said that,” Simon said, “reminds me of a man I used to know at a pretty dark time in my life. You ever fight in the war?”

Struggling to catch his breath, Mohn took a moment to compose himself. “Yes.” He kept the answer short and instead forced a smile. He knew he needed to act differently, play a role, assume the position, pretend to be relaxed. He was a chameleon. Blend in. Act like everyone else. Don’t give yourself away. “I suppose you must be confusing me with someone else.”

Simon’s piercing eyes continued to look at him under his spectacles and Mohn felt the gaze of the man he’d never forgotten. Did he know? Mohn felt his stomach lurch and he clutched onto it again, feeling the pain surge through him with sudden intensity. He couldn’t contain the agony and let out a cry.

“You alright…Major?”

Almost forgetting his pain, Mohn looked up and his eyes met Simon’s. Their faces remained neutral, unmoved, unsure, but the man had called him Major and that was unmistakable. He hadn’t misheard that.

“It is you, Major, isn’t it?

“I think you’re confusing me…”

Simon leaned in close so no-one else could hear. “Major Horst Mohn. I could never forget you. I was fooled for a while but I think I always knew it was you. You’ve convinced yourself that you’re a human now. You’re certainly wearing human clothes.”

Mohn’s lips quivered. He quickly glanced behind him to where his wife stood talking to some other people in the spectator’s area. “You’re mistaken in knowing me.”

“That would suit you nicely, wouldn’t it, Major? Is that your wife back there?”

“Yes.”

“Do you love her?”

There was a moment’s hesitation. “Yes.” He knew he did. He didn’t love many people but he knew he loved her.

“Bet she doesn’t know who you really are.”

“I’m not sure I even do, Mr. Carter.” Mohn finally accepted that he’d been recognised. “And what of Cathy?”

“She’s here, Major. She’s standing right behind you.”

Mohn didn’t turn around. He’d never laid eyes on Cathy in person but he’d seen a photograph and she’d been beautiful. To him she was always the words she wrote rather than an image in his mind. She and Mr. Carter had clearly gone on to celebrate forty happy years together. They probably had children and whole lives. Until this moment, to Mohn, Simon Carter had only existed in Colditz and in his nightmares.

“Children?” Mohn asked plainly.

“Yes, we have children. What about you? Don’t tell me you procreated, Major?”

Mohn frowned. His lip trembled. His eyes watered. Carter had him where he wanted him. “I have two.”

Simon nodded but once again his face remained neutral. He continued to keep up the pretence that they were playing chess and smiled whenever someone looked their way.

“What are you going to do?” Mohn asked, almost whispering.

Simon rested his head on his hands. “Well I have absolutely no idea.”

“How does it feel?”

“What?”

“To have all that power in your hands, Mr. Carter?”

“It’s not something I enjoy, Major, unlike you.”

At every mention of the word ‘Major’, Mohn flinched and checked around him. He moved a chess piece across the board.

“You’re not going to bargain for your freedom like last time?” Simon asked.

Mohn looked down at his trembling hands. “I have nothing like that in me anymore.”

“I wonder.”

“You disbelieve?”

“I don’t disbelieve exactly I just wonder now how you feel knowing I’m here, knowing I’m the one who can change everything.”

“It’s like I said, a powerful thing, Mr. Carter.”

“But feeling as though someone’s there, watching everything you do, all your life, they look and you wonder and wonder if one day its there and time is up.”

Mohn didn’t move but his lips quivered violently and a single tear rose to the surface but wouldn’t fall. 

“It’s horrible being trapped in a prison isn’t it with someone dictating your every move?” he said and with a swipe of his hand he claimed one of Mohn’s chess pieces.

“An eternal punishment.”

“Funny really.”

“Go on.”

“Us sitting here like this. Two normal blokes, both with a love of chess, both family men. We could have been friends.”

“We could.”

“Such a shame when you think about it. We could share a pint, talk about sport, family, and how easy it is to become enemies.”

“I was never your enemy, Mr. Carter, only your war opponent.”

“And that makes it easier I suppose. Convincing yourself that it was the war that made you act that way.”

“I did what I believed right for my cause, nothing more.”

“And you’re not sorry?”

Mohn fell silent. He’d asked himself that question many times. Was he sorry for his treatment of Simon or simply sorry he had lost the war and his self-respect? He honestly didn’t know the answer. 

“People change, Simon.”

“I believe some people can,” Simon replied, “I’m not so sure about others, Horst.”

They stared at each other for several moments before Mohn attempted to get up from the table. He knew that whatever he did, Simon Carter would only ever see the young Major Horst Mohn standing in the courtyard at Colditz, reigning supreme over it.

“You leaving us, Major?”

Simon watched him struggle to stand and saw Mohn’s wife rush to his side, fussing over him.

“Darling, be careful.” She stroked his hair and then smiled at Simon. “I do wish he’d take it easy.”

“I bet he’s done a lot of that,” Simon said to himself discreetly. 

When Mohn felt steady he told his wife he’d join her in a few moments and Simon noticed she’d struck up a conversation with Cathy. Mohn stood silent for several moments before speaking.

“I’m leaving now, Mr. Carter. Are you going to follow me?”

There was a moment’s pause before Simon got up and approached him. He stood close. “I have absolutely no idea, Major, I really don’t.”

Mohn walked away slowly but Simon didn’t follow.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a fic challenge for 'flash-forward'


End file.
